


take care

by technicallyproficient



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, as per usual, taking significant liberties w/ canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-04-05 05:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicallyproficient/pseuds/technicallyproficient
Summary: "We could go to the pub. We've never been to the pub." // immediately post-series. you guessed it: they go to the pub!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a Beach House song by the same name. This fic goes out to all my pals who were also annoyed by how Broadchurch dealt with Hardy's absence (and subsequent return) between series 2 and 3. Enjoy! 
> 
> (I have plans for a second and *tentative* third chapter too.)

The pub Miller takes him to is crowded, absolutely teeming with young professionals and Broadchurch regulars. The music is loud, too, some obnoxious pop number that he vaguely remembers hearing from Daisy's bedroom at a similar volume.

It is exactly as he imaged it would be. Loud, crowded, filthy.

He hates it.

"Oh, c'mon, Hardy. Smile! We're at a pub, we've just solved a major case. This'll be good for us. Relaxing, even. You do know how to do that, don't you?"

He's trailing behind her as she navigates them to a pair of empty barstools near the corner, already cursing himself for having agreed to come. Why can't he say no to her anymore?

"I am relaxed, Miller," he says. "I took my tie off on the walk over here. See?"

She rolls her eyes at him and then turns away, motioning for the bartender. "What're you having? A pint? First round is on you."

"How generous of me," he scoffs, moving to situate himself on the barstool next to her. "I'll take a pint."

"Brilliant. And a wine for me, please," she says.

She smiles at the bartender then, a big, gummy grin that brightens her whole face. She is radiant in the dingy light of this pub, and for a moment he can't turn bring himself to turn away from her.

"You okay?" She asks, her brows furrowed in confusion at his sudden attention. 

"Fine," he says, turning away from her to grab the lager the bartender has just set in front of him. 

He takes a long pull from the glass and closes his eyes, mentally chiding himself for being so obvious. 

She isn't ready for all that. Not yet.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Their first round goes down smooth. He can feel the alcohol loosening his inhibitions, softening him up a bit.

Miller has asked that they don't mention work ( _at least for one night, Hardy, please_ ) so they mostly talk about their children. He takes occasional sips of his beer and listens to her talk about Tom and Fred's antics, paying close attention to the stories that make her face light up, the way the wine has muddled her speech.

He tries not to read too much into the way she leans against him when she laughs, tries not to think about how warm he feels when their shoulders brush up against each other. Every time she readjusts herself on the barstool he catches a whiff of something feminine and bright, a floral scent that vaguely reminds him of early spring in Glasgow. She smells like home. 

When she motions the bartender over for another round, he doesn't object. 

This one is also his treat. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Sometime later, at least three or four drinks in, she turns to him and says: "Tell me something about you."

"What?" He chokes a little on his lager, momentarily caught off-guard by the abrupt change in topic. "Like what?" 

"I don't know, Hardy, just... your favourite colour or something," she says. She pauses for a brief moment, re-directing her gaze towards the dirty countertop, a poor attempt at hiding her grin. "Or any bad Tinder dates you might've been on lately."

He huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head in mock-annoyance. "You're hilarious." 

This bit, the quick back-and-forth commentary and exchanging of sarcasm, has always been easy between the two of them. Hardy had been comfortable around Miller long before he'd even liked her, something like intimacy bleeding its way into all of their conversations. All of those late nights spent huddled over a single laptop, Sandbrook files spread out on his coffee table, a sleepy Fred in his pram in the corner. She is more familiar to him than any other person has been, at any point in his life. It scares the hell out of him. 

She's staring at him now, though, clearly intent on seeing this conversation through.

"Miller, this is stupid," he says. "You know me. There's nothing to tell."

"You could tell me why you came back. The real reason, not just... some vague bullshit about Daisy," she says. 

She had tried for cool and casual. Unaffected, even. But instead, it comes out strained. She looks away from him, wincing at the anger in his eyes. 

"How long have you been waiting to bring that up?"

"Not long," she says, trying to recover her composure. "I read the _Echo_ article a while ago. After you left. It seemed... brief."

He takes a long sip of his beer and turns to face her, giving her a resigned shrug.  

“The DS that lost the pendant was my wife. My _ex-_ wife," he says.

“But that DS was—“

“Shagging somebody else in a hotel room upstairs. Aye.”

In his haste to stop her from jumping to conclusions his words come out bitter, bitingly angry. This betrayal had hurt, carved itself somewhere deep beneath his ribcage. She knows the feeling well.

"Shit, Hardy. I'm sorry."

She places her hand on top of his on the countertop, brushing her thumb soothingly against the back of his hand. 

"Yeah," he sighs. 

"So..." 

She tugs at the moment, hoping to stretch it out between the two of them. He still hasn't answered her question, but maybe with a little guidance...

"So, nothing. Let's just drop it. Okay?" 

"Fine," she says. 

He makes no attempt at conversation, content to let a lingering silence occur between the two of them. Miller is increasingly aware of their hands -- still intertwined on the grimy bar countertop -- and grows nervous. She casts about for some new topic of conversation, some safe space far away from marriage and children. 

"Well," she says, all false-brightness. "Might as well order some chips while we're here, too, right?"

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He lets her eat most of the chips; it's his way of apologising -- without _really_ apologising -- and he knows she'll get it, knows she'll take it in stride and move past any lasting resentment at his behaviour. 

Her hands comes back to rest occasionally on his own, leaving a slight greasiness from the chips. She chatters excitedly about some new woman Brian from SOCO is dating, gives him updates on how Beth is handling her separation from Mark. 

"And she's mostly doing great," she says. "She's got beautiful baby Lizzie keeping her busy, and Chloe, well... she's broken up with Dean..."

He listens with only a passing interest, content to watch the wrinkle in her nose appear and disappear at different parts of the story. 

They have, he thinks, mostly moved past what happened earlier.

She turns to him, then, her earlier mirth gone. 

“Why did you do it?” 

“What?” He asks.

“Why did you take the fall for Tess?”

He exhales loudly, more than a little annoyed. He should've known she wouldn't let this rest. 

“I thought we were done talking about this.”

“We were,” she says, finishing off the last of her wine. “And now we’re not.”

“Miller—“

“You nearly killed yourself trying to solve Sandbrook. Working long hours, eating like a bloody rabbit. Not sleeping.” She sets her glass back down on the bar, twisting in her barstool to face him. Their knees knock against each other. "And for what? It wasn't your fault, Hardy."

He adjusts in his barstool, moving away from her, eliminating any contact. 

"It was my fault," he mumbles. 

"What?" She is incredulous, angry on his behalf. Angry at his fucking capacity for guilt, and self-pity. 

 "I thought... it was a rough patch. That Sandbrook was getting to us. I didn't see it, had no idea she was shagging somebody else. Had been for months. If I had just--"

"Just what?" She interrupts, growing increasingly irritated. "Known she was going to cheat on you?"

"Made her happier," he says, defeated. "If I had made her happier, she wouldn't have cheated. And we wouldn't have lost that pendant. It is my fault, Miller. It was _my_ failure." 

The tone of his voice makes tears sting behind her eyes, and she feels a sharp burning sensation in her throat. All this time she'd listened to him talk about Sandbrook, justifying long nights -- and nearly killing himself -- by saying it was his penance, his way of washing away his sins. She had no idea he was making up for Tess not loving him enough.

"How can you think like that?" She swipes at her eyes, looking away from him. "And what about Daisy? You let her believe you walked out on her, and you didn't."

He has started toying with the napkin below his empty glass of lager, tearing it into smaller pieces. He can't meet her eyes.

"I didn't know how much time I was going to have. My heart problems... Didn't want her to watch me die," he says, with a self-deprecating laugh. "She was always closest to her mother, anyways."

Miller places her hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

"But she's with you now," she says, softly. 

"Aye," he smiles. "She found out. Saw a copy of that bloody article and started asking questions. She stayed with Tess, for a while, but then it... got to be too much. Started causing trouble at school, bunking off in the middle of the day." 

"So you took her here. To Broadchurch."

It isn't a question, but he nods anyway. 

"I didn't know where else to go," he says.

She lets out a shaky breath and closes her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She had hated him when they first met, had been so cruel in her assessment of him. She shudders, remembering how she'd spent countless hours laughing with Joe about him, at his refusal to wear anything other than a suit. His tireless work ethic, his piss-poor attempts at being human. 

Now, she thinks she might not have known him at all. 

"Right," she says, flagging down the bartender to ask for the cheque. "We should get going."

She sees a flash of hurt cross his face before he covers it up, replacing it with a look of indifference. 

He grabs for the cheque and pays without a second thought, places a steadying hand on her back as she rises from her own barstool. 

"It's pretty late. I'll- I should walk you home," he mumbles. 

She's about to protest when her mind, unwittingly, lands on Trish Winterman. They are both thinking it.

She nods her head, trailing him out the door, hoping she can find the strength to make it to her house before bursting into tears. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for the delay! I fractured my wrist, as luck would have it, and have spent the last few weeks recuperating and getting a head start on my summer reading list. I hope you all had a good week & thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr at @abbymlockhart if you are interested in talking about any of my (numerous) Hardy and Miller head canons!

Outside the pub it is quiet and bitterly cold, making them both wince at the contrast. Hardy watches as Miller shrugs herself into her ridiculous, gaudy orange jacket, burying her fists into the pockets. He finds himself smiling at the image, oddly charmed by her sensible fashion choices, her no-nonsense attitude. Miller never was one for false pretenses, for pretending to be something she wasn't. 

He is mesmerised by her, by her honesty, her pretty bone structure and the slight pout of her lips.  

Hardy had never planned on telling her everything about Tess and Daisy, the life he had left behind in Sandbrook. The DI opportunity in Broadchurch was supposed to a temporary gig, a small town police job with an even smaller caseload. A place to hide Claire. Somewhere far enough away from the past, and Sandbrook, for both of them to get a little distance and some time away. 

His tenure in Broadchurch was _supposed_ to be short, but then he'd met Miller. 

And now, he can’t help but wonder if maybe his mum was right. Maybe God did put him in the right place, and it’s taken him until now to realise it.

&&&&&&&

“Bet this isn’t what you had in mind when you invited me for a night out at the pub,” he says.

They are walking at a steady pace, their shoes beating rhythmically against the pavement. He has been trying to meet her eyes since they left.  

“No,” she says, staring pointedly down at her feet. “It wasn’t.”

Hardy waits for her to elaborate, and when she doesn't, he casts about for something else to say. He is disconcerted by her silence. Never, in all their years of car rides and long hours at the station, has Miller run out of things to say. Even in her worst moments she prattled on aimlessly, never without something useless to say about Fred or Tom. He has always been the silent one in the relationship. The _friendship_ , he corrects, mentally chiding himself. 

But now, suddenly, she is as sullen and withdrawn as he usually is. Has been since before they left the pub. Was it something he'd said? 

“Is it -- are you mad because I didn’t call?” He pauses a beat, as if trying to work out his question after he's already asked it. “After I went back to Sandbrook, I mean.”

She huffs out a laugh in spite of herself, rolling her eyes. Her frustration is palpable.

She'd been wrong about him, completely fucking missed the mark on so many aspects of his personality. But, she thinks, at least in this she’s always known him. Hardy is hopelessly inept at reading people, and an absolute knob. 

“Christ, you’re the daftest man I’ve ever met,” she says. Her words drip with sarcasm, making him wince at his own incompetence. 

“Well, what is it then, Miller? You wanted to know why I came back and now that I’ve told you—“

“I’m glad you told me. Really, I am. It’s just… a bit of a shock.” She pauses, struggling to compose herself, irritated at the tears that threaten to spill over. She had hoped to make it home before all of this. “It's hard. Thinking you know someone, and finding out that you don't... that you never did.”

He gets the feeling that they’ve ventured beyond him and his immediate past, and are now entering new territory. She had been so strong after Joe, so ready and willing to push forward, to move on. He sometimes forgets the hurt underneath all of that strength. 

He reaches out -- tentatively -- to envelop her in a hug, half expecting her to push him away. He is shocked, then, when she readily accepts, her body firmly resting against his.

“I’m sorry,” he says. "I would have-- I should have told you."

She sniffles, breathing in his warmth. He smells of something masculine, and vaguely woodsy. It reminds her, fleetingly, of home.

“I’m just so tired of feeling like this,” she says.

“I know."

They stay wrapped up like that, his body a comfortable shelter from the cold, damp air. He won't say anything more about it. He has learned, over time, that as much as he might wish it, there is nothing he can do to make it better for her. He has never felt worse about solving a case than he did on that day. He remembers kneeling on the floor of the interview room with her, wishing he could absorb all of her pain. 

She thinks he might understand her better than anyone, at this point. They are both so accustomed to grief, pain at the hands of those they loved the most.

A slight buzzing in her pocket causes them to break apart. It is her dad, most likely wondering at her whereabouts. She sighs, swiping at her eyes. She really needs him to move out.

“My dad,” she says, holding her phone up. “Can never be gone for too long.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot as she responds, his eyes fixated on a gum wrapper on the ground. He can hear the soft clicking of the keyboard as she types out a response. 

The hug had changed things between them, he knows. It is as if the tides have suddenly shifted; she is someone that now willingly accepts his affection. He is uncharacteristically nervous. 

“You hugged me,” she says, as if that is a conversation in and of itself.

The cheeky smile on her lips warms him inside. It is the first he's seen in hours, since long before they left the pub. Hardy finds that he'd do anything, really, to make that smile appear more often.

“Wasn't sure you'd let me," he quips, enjoying their return to comfortable banter. 

"Worth the risk?" She had tried for humorous, but it comes out vulnerable, soft. He feels as if every conversation they've had tonight has operated on two levels, everything assuming a double-meaning. 

His body vibrates with nervous energy. He knows what she's asking. 

"Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah. It was." 

They walk on. 

&&&&&&&&&

By the time they reach her flat, it is late. Much later than she had anticipated on staying out.

A small part of her feels guilty, standing out on the porch with a man while her father waits up inside. It transports her back to her teenage years, watching her breath become visible in the cold air, nervously hoping her high school crush will work up the courage to kiss her. 

Lately every idle moment with Hardy has begun to feel like this, as if they are constantly on the precipice of something more. She has always thought him handsome, in a scruffy, blink-and-you'll-miss-it type of way. Charming in the right lighting, before you have a proper conversation with him. But even that's been changing.

And then tonight in the pub, it was like a switch had been flipped. Suddenly everything about him was different, bigger somehow, more magnified. She can't stop thinking about their hug, and how strong his arms felt as they tightened around her, as if they might crush her. 

Beneath all that gruff and bluster, she is surprised to find out, there is something more, a sensitive man with a large heart. A part of her had been happy to categorise him as a grumpy bastard and a job thief; she had selfishly liked that, in all their time together, he had never bothered to change, to succumb to smiling his way through social pleasantries. His irritability and general social ignorance was her constant, the one reliable aspect of her otherwise tumultuous life. 

When he had told her about Tess at the pub she had been furious, both at him and on his behalf. How could he hide such a large part of himself from her, when her whole, tragic life has been so boldly on display for him? She feels cheated, somehow. 

And, worst of all, she now sees every encounter between the two of them in a new light. Every time he had reached out to touch her after Joe is a new, painful memory. The guilt threatens to choke her. How could she have denied him human contact, simple comfort, when he was so starved of it? Alone, and missing his daughter.

"Miller? Are you -- everything all right?" 

She startles out of her reverie to find that he is looking at her, his gaze intense beneath the dull porch light. 

They had traded in serious conversation for sarcastic banter about halfway to her flat. She had mostly teased him about Tinder, and the amount of beer he'd had tonight. She had thought, foolishly, that things would go back to normal. The look in his eyes tells her, quite clearly, that that was never an option. 

"Sorry. Maybe a little tipsy still, I think," she says. 

She tries to tamper down the nervous laughter that bubbles beneath her ribcage. When had he gotten so handsome? 

"Right, well. Guess I'd better head back now," he says.

There is an edge to his voice, something like longing, that tugs at her. She isn't really ready to say goodnight, not yet. She doesn't think he is either.

She reaches out towards him, her hand loosely grasping his wrist, tugging slightly. 

"Yeah," she says.

The confusion in his eyes is evident, but there's something else too, a heat that she's just starting to recognise. She is hit, suddenly, with the startling realisation that he is attracted to her. And worse yet, she's attracted to him, too. 

So she does the only thing she can think to do: she kisses him. 

Standing up on her toes, she presses a light, quick kiss against his lips. It was soft, and sweet, not entirely unlike the kiss she shared so many years ago with her high school crush. 

When she pulls back his eyes are still closed, a dreamy look on his face. He makes no motion to move towards her.

She's about to mutter a quick _Sorry_ when he pounces on her, his hands tangling in her hair, the force of his body pushing her back against the door.

There is nothing soft or delicate about the way he kisses her now, and she can taste the remnants of lager on him. She tries to be a more active participant, allowing her fingers to scratch lightly in his hair, to feel her way across the lean, hard muscles of his back. 

When he begins to place rough, open-mouthed kisses against her neck she lets out a breathy moan, her head falling back against the door. 

The loud noise startles them apart, and Miller is suddenly very aware of their location. 

It takes everything she has not to bolt inside. 

"Right, well," he says, combing his hand through his hair. He is shaking slightly, his breath coming out in loud pants.

She has never been more attracted to him than she is in this moment. The shy look on his face and his slightly swollen lips make her want to drag him upstairs, her father and children be damned. 

Instead, she smiles nervously at him, knowing that the few tipsy kisses they have just shared on her porch will likely change everything between them. Strangely, she finds she doesn't care all that much.

"Yeah," she says. "I guess I'd better go inside."

She moves to turn away from him, but stops mid-way, and instead takes a couple steps towards him, crowding his space. 

He smiles down at her, and she tips her head up, meeting him halfway for a soft, sweet kiss. 

It is nothing like their previous, frantic kisses against her door. It is gentle, a quick pressing of lips.

It is a promise.

"Goodnight, Miller," he says. 

"Goodnight, Hardy."


End file.
